


oh, but kingdoms await

by norikae



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: ???????????????, Established Relationship, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Violence, Polyamory Negotiations, Secret Societies, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-04 11:02:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16345475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norikae/pseuds/norikae
Summary: “You can’t just - you can’t just act as if things can be laid out so simply, Junhui. It doesn’t work like that.”Minghao stands up then, weary. “Let’s just -” his hands wave about, vaguely - “Just not talk about this anymore, okay? And by the way,” he adds, gesturing to the board, where there is a clear line between their two generals, left when Junhui had haphazardly shifted his soldier out of the way a few moves prior. “I would’ve won three turns ago.”But he hadn’t chosen to. Junhui tries not to think too hard about that fact.





	oh, but kingdoms await

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO. I would like to preface this by saying I am the least valid bastard to ever climb out of the pits of hell and touch this planet. This reads VERY loosely as historical fiction - it is set towards the end of the Qing dynasty (late 19th/early 20th century), where Western influence began to pressurise China. Assassination secret-society type groups did exist, but the one I made up does not bear any resemblance to any of them. Also, in case you're wondering, guns were invented long before, but I figured assassination bois wouldn't use them because silencers weren't a thing yet and anyway bows are cooler.
> 
> Regarding the challenge - My song was Sober II (Melodrama). In brief explanation, my interpretation of the song is that it is very much about the fall after a high. To that extent I ... did not keep closely to the lyrics, but worked on the mood of the track itself. After the party there is a crash, and this fic tries to go into that. 
> 
> If you've read this far - I know this could be a lot better T______T, and I apologise for the path I did take as a result of personal failures, but if you don't read too closely I think this could still be fun!
> 
> Lastly, thank you mods for your hard work hosting this. I love u guys :}

The shot is cleanly lined up, and his hand is steady. At the other end, the figure of a minor official stands on a balcony, holding a book in his hands as he peers out towards the moon. Shrouded, the archer waits for a moment longer in wordless courtesy.

Then he releases the bowstring, and the arrow speeds through the night, plunging deep into soft flesh. He hears, more than sees, it meet its mark, a strangled wet sound deep in shadowy eaves.  

By the time guards find the body, it is dawn, and his killer is long gone.

 

\---

 

“I want something _inspiring_ ,” Junhui complains halfheartedly, seated entirely the wrong way on a chair, head lolling on crossed arms as he rocks to and fro on slightly raised feet. “Some of them just make it too easy, you know?”

Minghao spares him half of a disinterested glance from where he’s methodically sharpening a dagger, a beautiful thing with an ornately carved hilt, replete with mother-of-pearl inlays. “Hm?”

Junhui nods enthusiastically, gesticulating wildly to accentuate his points. “So you know last night I had a job, right?” He doesn’t wait for a response, because it _is_ his partner’s job to know these things. “Solo, because it would be easy, sure, but he was just _standing there_. Out in the open. At night! Next to a taller building!”

He stops, then huffs a laugh, shaking his head at the very thought. “Can you believe that?”

“Hm?”

“I know, right? Fat lot of good their _foreign influence_ and _education_ and _money_ is doing them, if it doesn’t teach them how not to be sitting ducks.” Junhui hums to himself cheerily, setting the chair down on all four legs.

“Hey - you think they should do that? Like, lesson one - Stay indoors if people hate you.”

“Mm.”

He resumes the rocking. “Lesson two, _hmm_ …. Stop being an asshole. Listen to your people. Maybe then we wouldn’t have this problem - oh wait, then we wouldn’t have a job - that wouldn’t do... Well, maybe them being dumb _is_ fine - _hey_ , are you even listening?”

Minghao snorts in reply, holding the blade up to the lamp. Warm light glints off it, liquid on the freshly sharpened edges. He twists it beneath their joined gazes, traces a hypnotic figure eight – then abruptly jerks it in Junhui’s direction.

Already seated unsteadily on his chair, the shock causes Junhui to squawk and jerk backwards too far and too quickly, overbalancing and crashing to the floor in a jumble of panicked limbs. The chair teeters with leftover momentum, hanging in precarious balance for the longest fraction of a second before it, too, tilts to the ground like an afterthought. From the floor there is a pitiful “ _oof_ ”.

There’s the sound of the dagger being sheathed, then a few light footsteps. When Junhui peeks out from under the arm that has fallen over his face, Minghao looms over him, mouth quirked wryly. “Inspiring,” he remarks, then turns and leaves the room, door swinging shut behind him.

 

“You did want interesting,” Minghao is saying, tilting his head in a manner that is almost feline, watching. “I’d call this all sorts of interesting. Exciting stuff. Right up your alley.”

“The word I used was _inspiring_ ,” Junhui moans, sinking his face into his hands. “There’s nothing _inspiring_ about having to tail some rich brat with bodyguards for _two weeks_ before we’re even allowed to breathe on him. He probably only ever emerges from reading to take a walk to the theatre, or something.”

“It’s hardly that bad,” Minghao says, but his amusement is clear from the lilt of his voice. “He probably paints sometimes, too.”

“Hurray,” Junhui deadpans, scuffing a shoe repeatedly into the dirt. “Painting, reading, and theatre. All easy outdoor activities that give me actual access to the target.”

His conversational partner squints distractedly past him as a merchant towing a cart full of produce trudges by. “Delayed gratification, Junnie. I thought that was what you wanted. It’s like a puzzle, and once we crack it, we get the reward.”

“ _And_ I’m stuck with the one member who acts like my grandfather despite being younger than me,” Junhui mutters under his breath, chewing angrily on a piece of straw. Minghao deftly swipes it out of his mouth and drops it to the floor, grinding it into the dust with his heel.

“You act like you didn’t choose your partner,” he hums. “All the association, and you said, I like this one. You lost the right to complain about me forever ago.”

From the front of the shop there is a call, and when they look through the doorway Hansol is peeking through at them, eyebrows raised. “Are you two gonna leave me to tend the shopfront alone _all day_?” He asks, mouth in that perpetual half-grin of his. “These pots aren’t going to sell themselves, you know.”

 “It’s Minghao’s fault,” Junhui says automatically, and jogs back towards Hansol before the other can react, cackling as he goes.

 

Two days later, and this is where they are: Junhui is proudly whooping a _this is great_ , laughing full body with his head thrown back as he deftly scrambles across slanted roofs dimly limned in moonlight.

“Shut the fuck up,” Minghao mutters, voice throaty as he follows closely behind. “Your noisy ass is the reason we’re in this shit in the first place.”

Hanging a sharp left allows Junhui to glance back at him, grinning slightly crookedly, pointed canines just visible in the night. “You know you like it,” he quips, seamlessly transitioning into a running leap to land on the next rooftop. “Easy never was your thing.”

Minghao huffs in lieu of an answer, and follows suit. “Nobody ever learned anything by staying in their comfort zones.” Then he glances back, and, seeing their pursuers are gone, gestures for Junhui to drop to the ground, following suit when he does.

When he lands noiselessly he is welcomed by his partner grinning blindingly, chest heaving lightly from the exertion of their escape. “Nobody we can’t outrun,” Junhui begins with a victorious laugh, before the grin freezes and slides straight off his face. “Hao,” he says, suddenly urgent, despair creeping into his tone. “Hao, you’re injured.”

Minghao glances at his left arm, where his sleeve has been sliced away to reveal skin, gashed and bleeding. “I know,” he says simply, shrugging. “One of them had a bow.” He’s already started walking down a familiar path, even as Junhui stays stuck to the spot.

“You didn’t say,” Junhui says, low tone nonetheless carrying through the still air. The distance between them has widened enough that he starts into a light jog so he can catch up.

Minghao slides him a considering gaze. “When would have been good, hmm, in between having a personal guard raise hell over spotting us in a tree and being chased across half of the city by a small armed force?”

Junhui bites his lower lip so hard it turns white, visible even in the heavy blue cast of twilight. “I’m sorry.”

Minghao punches him lightly with his good arm, more a tap than anything. “Chill, it’s in the job description.” His mouth stretches into a smile, curved just enough at the edges to be clearly genuine. “Just gotta go get it patched up.”  

Belatedly, Junhui realises, following Minghao down an alley, that they’re nearly at their physician’s hut. He does little to suppress the grin that blooms onto his face, and when Minghao catches sight of it his response is to snort. “And here I thought you were worried about me.”

He comes abruptly to a stop then, and Junhui walks straight into him, earning an expression not unlike that of a particularly disgruntled frog. Minghao knocks on the door, two sharp raps, and soon the door swings open to reveal a tall man, eyes worn and hair unbound in the candlelight backlighting him. “Minghao? Come in.”

He steps in without further ado, and Junhui smiles shyly in response to a soft “Oh,” when he, too, follows suit. “Hey, Yanan.”

“Do you need patching up as well?” Yanan’s tone is light as he moves to the other room, soon followed by the sound of jars being picked up and set down in their place. There’s a noise like something being ground in a bowl.

Junhui falters. “No, I –“

“Just me,” Minghao cuts in, loudly. “Junhui just wanted to see you.”

He smiles, smug, when Junhui’s aborted attempt to attack him for the comment is curtailed by (1) the reminder that he’s injured, and (2) the resultant laugh filtering from next door, windchimes in a summer breeze. “Is that so?”

“It is,” Minghao quips on their behalf, and extracts himself from Junhui’s half-threatening hold with a pointed look.

Yanan’s smile is audible when he next speaks. “Come on over and do that, then.”

When they enter the room Yanan lets out a small noise of distress that quiets as he inspects Minghao’s arm. Where the arrow had cut but not stuck in his arm the gash is bloody, and not as deep as it initially appears. He cleans it with a wet cloth, then rubs a tincture in, before binding it carefully in a bandage with instructions to see him to change it daily.

“Do you guys _like_ getting hurt?” he tuts as he tightens the bind, slapping Minghao’s arm lightly. When the other opens his mouth to protest he seizes the chance to spoon some sort of mixture down his throat, smiling beatifically at the resulting coughs. He fixes his gaze on Junhui when he asks, “Why do you even do this?”

“If we didn’t get injured you wouldn’t have a job,” Minghao points out, face still slightly scrunched up from the taste of the potion.

Yanan sighs and pulls himself up from his patient, walking over towards Junhui, who makes space for him, hands falling lightly on his waist, pulling them together. “I could be tending to people who were sick and needy, actually, so I would, in fact, not be unemployed. Unlike you two.”

Junhui grins, all teeth and bright eyes. “But it’s _fun_ , Yanan. If the government won’t do something, we’ll whittle away at them until they do. We’re just doing what we can.”

His partner hums in agreement from across the room. “And it’s satisfying when they go splat.”

“Ew,” Yanan says, his expression crinkled into something half-amused, half-something else as he releases himself from Junhui’s grip with no small amount of difficulty. His voice is a little bit strange when he quips, lightness forced, “Don’t make it sound like you’re talking about fruit.”

None of them really know what to say, then, the conversation lapsing into a sort of lull as they all simultaneously start fiddling with something or the other, eyelines very deliberately not crossing.

“Well,” Minghao says, cutting through the awkward silence. He inspects his arm before pulling his tunic back closed, having found it to his satisfaction, and gets up. “Move it, Jun. We have to report back and figure out what to do next.”

“Oh. Right.” Junhui’s disappointment is apparent as he looks back towards their physician, now busy with marking new jars. His brush is sure and swift as he goes. “Well. I’ll see you soon, right?”

Yanan visibly hesitates, but he turns around and smiles directly at Junhui, bright enough to cast away any shadow of lurking doubt.

“Yeah,” he says, “See you.”

 

\---

 

In the market, Junhui hums to himself as he strolls, garbed in merchant wear, amongst market stalls. He nods to the odd stallkeeper or so who recognises him from the pottery shop he runs with Hansol and Minghao, but otherwise keeps to himself, quietly surveying his surroundings.

And then stops, seeing a little girl hiding in the dip between two stalls, open longing in her gaze. Following her line of vision to a stall selling wooden trinkets, Junhui walks over and spends a while perusing them, eventually settling on a dragonfly toy made of whittled wood that he purchases for a small amount.

“Hello,” he says, when he’s walked back to where she is, folding himself into a crouch so they’re more or less eye to eye. “I bought two of these by accident. Do you want one?”

The child’s eyes grow wide as she fixates on the item resting on his palm, but she doesn’t say anything, hands fisting uncertainly in the sides of her tunic. “You can have it,” he says softly, smiling encouragingly.

Then, struck by inspiration, he adds, pouting for effect, “My parents will scold me if I bring it home.” It’s conceivable enough - they might have, he thinks, if he had known them.

That seems to get a response out of her. A small smile breaks across her face, gummy and unevenly populated by milk teeth. “Okay, mister,” she says shyly, and when she holds out her two hands Junhui places it carefully in her open palms. “‘Fank you!”

He’s about to wave and send her off on her way when somebody bumps into his crouched form, sending him nearly off balance. When he whips his head around he makes eye contact with a man who inclines his head the slightest bit, quickly exiting the buzz and turning down an alley.

Turning back, he finds the girl has since left. Junhui rocks to his feet, dusting off his pants, and follows the figure, stopping when he spots the man leaning against the wall, just within a shadow.

“What’s up, Wonwoo?” he greets cheerily. “Not a social visit, I suppose?”

The other man huffs something that might be laughter. “Afraid not,” he replies. “This is about your mission.”

“Ah.” Junhui crosses his arms, leans against the other wall. “And?”

“I was told to tell you to complete it solo since Minghao is temporarily out of commission.” He pauses. “But. I think - you can opt to wait for him, if you want, or request someone else to accompany you. It’s not actually that time sensit -”

Junhui cuts him off. “No. I’ll do it,” he says, and avoids the curious gaze he can feel levied upon him. “The same, right? Complete monitoring, carry out the task within half a moon?”

Wonwoo’s sharp eyes are considering, and Junhui is grateful for his restraint in commenting. “Yes. Shall I inform them that you’ve indicated acceptance, then?”

Junhui isn’t looking at him anymore, mind running circles around a torn sleeve and blood dripping onto dirt paths. “Yeah, you do that,” he says distractedly. “Thanks, Wonwoo.”

“Sure thing.” And then he pauses, breaks character. Tilts his head when he says, low enough for anyone not listening carefully to hear, “Take care, Junhui,” and when Junhui looks back he is gone.

 

\---

 

His skin is so white under the moon, iridescent. Junhui takes a bite out of the generous glow, and Yanan moans in response, a low sound that breaks at the end, clear in the night.

“Jun,” he manages, adjusting to wrap long, slender fingers along the side of his waist, quivering with the effort it takes to keep himself together, tense in the teeter between push and pull. “Junhui. Are you sure?”

Junhui pulls away from his neck just long enough to press their foreheads together, touching nose to nose tenderly even as his hands drift lower, hoisting Yanan up by the thighs, supporting him easily against the wall. “About you? Always.” There’s a smile accompanying it that is impossibly genuine, so incongruous with the complete avoidance.

“ _Junhui_ ,” Yanan presses, forcing severity into his tone around his instinctive smile at those features being so close. “The mission. Are you sure?”

In response, Junhui leans in for a kiss, but Yanan tilts his head so all that is achieved is a collision of their noses. In apology he smoothes a thumb over his cheek, but doesn’t say anything else, choosing instead to fix Junhui with a steady gaze. “Are you really going to do it on your own?”

This close, he knows he is transparent. Junhui leans his head back casually, pretends to be admiring the shafts of light dipping in through the windows, and says, “I have to.”

He isn’t talking about guild rules - this much is clear. Yanan braces careful arms on his shoulders, cups his head and tenderly tilts it to face him when he whispers, “Do you?”

Junhui grins at that, dipping Yanan for a kiss that is allowed this time. “It’ll be _fine_ , silly.” His voice is no more than a murmur into the space between their tongues when he adds, “Are you done overthinking now?”

There is only heat where they touch through flimsy layers of clothing, pressed so close, overlaid by the urgent need to surge closer still. Cocksure, Junhui must be bluffing, but closing his eyes and allowing him to make his way down his chest, almost feverishly pushing together, Yanan will take this honesty, even if there is nothing else.

 

\---

 

“I can go with you, you know.” Minghao leans against the doorway, watching Junhui check his knives, tighten the ties on his robes. “I know they took me off surveillance, but I’m basically healed now.”

“Are you?” Junhui challenges, cocking his head a bit to the side and straightening, punching Minghao in the injured arm as he does. The resulting wince and death glare gives him the reply he wants, and he laughs raucously, leaping back from an irritated swipe. “It’s fine, dude. I’m good. I know everything about this guy. Including when he uses the bedpan. At exactly two marks past -”

He is interrupted by a hand being clapped over his mouth. “That’s alright,” Minghao says loudly, patting him awkwardly with a large bony hand at the small of his back. “I’m glad you’ve done your work. Don’t let me keep you.”

Junhui licks at the hand out of spite, then untangles himself properly when his partner lets out a shriek of disgust, wiping his hand on his clothes as he recoils. “I’ll be back, honey,” he sing-songs, fluttering his fingers mock-coyly as he starts to leave. “Don’t wait up for me!”

He thinks Minghao mutters something under his breath as he leaves, but it gets lost in the sound of his own footsteps, the deafening thump he imagines he can hear when he drops the grin the moment he’s out of sight. He appreciates the offer, but this is something he has decided for himself, that he should do it alone.

Outside it is eerily silent, the moon still and half hidden in the sky, watching with an indolent eye as he keeps to the shadows, taking the shortest route into the deeper bounds of the city. Junhui breathes slowly, evenly, small measured inhales and exhales a stark contrast to the whirring of his mind, checking the target’s routine, the watch of his personal guard, the floorplan, the way they got caught the last time and how to prevent a repeat incident.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine. He scales a wall, peering over the top, and lands straight onto the guard stationed there, knocking him out with a swift jab to a pressure point. He uncurls from the prone form after gently kicking him under some shrubbery, then slides against the wall, careful to step silently, careful to remain within the eaves.

The coast is more or less clear - he had come just after the guard change for the night. Absently, Junhui lets his mind wander to Yanan, the way he closes off, sometimes, eyes shuttering, so he isn’t all there, even when Junhui has his hands to his ribs, can feel the rise and fall when he breathes. How sharply that contrasts with Minghao, whose thoughts are always on the front of his tongue, severe but honest.

He doesn’t notice that there is a guard missing when he reaches up and pulls himself, full-bodied, through an open window, slow to ease out of his fog of thought so he fails to realise the figure seated at the table is left-handed instead of right, with skin too tan and fine clothes sitting poorly on a body larger than the one they were tailored for.

He does, however, realise there’s something wrong when he dodges a thrown dagger purely out of instinct, jolting out of his haze when the man who most assuredly isn’t the scholar-official lunges straight for him with great, meaty hands.

He’s fast for his size, outstretched reach aiming for his neck. Junhui, being slighter, shifts to his left leg and lashes out with his right in a high kick that is narrowly avoided, the decoy - guard? - grabbing at his ankle as his foot arcs downwards.

The man pulls, but Junhui borrows his momentum for a flip, freeing himself long enough to produce a knife from a sleeve, flicking it deftly at his opponent’s torso. He, too, dodges, and makes to close the distance - something Junhui knows he cannot allow. Pulling a larger dagger out, he lunges aggressively towards the guard with a wild swipe, satisfied when he draws blood, even if the other does not so much as falter.

 _It doesn’t make sense_ , he thinks, fending off blows as his opponent produces a dagger of similar length, forced backwards as he goes. He had been careless, perhaps, in continuing the mission so quickly after the targets had been put on alert. But he would’ve - he should’ve noticed. Junhui frowns. Had he missed something?

Then at close quarters, the knives clash and hold, emitting a metallic shriek that echoes by candlelight. The other man has the upper hand in strength and stature, and would win if they dragged it out.

But Junhui has speed and wit - he draws him in by easing up on his end of the stalemate, suddenly buckling and twisting out of the way so the bulkier figure overbalances, falling to the ground with the aid of a well-aimed low kick.

Junhui is moving in when he’s suddenly tugged backwards by an iron-tight grip hooking around his neck, and manoeuvred roughly so he’s pressed against the wall, both hands twisted together tightly by a rope. The pressure causes a bubble of anxiety and discomfort to swell in his chest, and he hacks out a cough, mind racing - a third party, then. He’d been too caught up in thinking to notice. A second time, and two times too many for the same mission.

He tests the bind, but it doesn’t budge. A low voice laughs. “There’s no point struggling.”

 _The alternative is letting you kill me_ , he thinks dully, trying desperately to recall the layout of the room as he entered it. All he remembers is reams of paper, books by the dozen - his gaze flickers to the stark shadows. A gas lamp.

Newly determined, Junhui lifts a leg to the wall and _pushes_ , using it as leverage to send his captor backwards. He just needs to get to the desk. It’s somewhat successful - the man stumbles under the weight, grip loosening just enough for Junhui to make a frenzied dash towards the table -

Where his first assailant is waiting, deep, hooded eyes grim, knife drawn. There is too little space - Junhui can feel the other man just shy of breathing down his neck, his initial opponent a mere step away from plunging metal between his lungs and twisting. Desperate, Junhui drops into a crouch just as he surges forward, sucking in a nervous breath as he cannot help but watch the arc of the blade, thinking he’s avoided it, has bought himself a few more seconds.

And sinks to the ground, blood gushing out of a cut sweeping straight across his chest, the blade lodged in his right shoulder. His mind is strangely blank apart from the screaming of his nerves as his left hand comes up to paw uselessly at the wound, processes foggy with a misplaced sense of wonder as he hears a _thump_ from behind him, raises his head just enough to see his attacker go careening lifelessly to the ground, a bolt sticking out of his neck.

As his vision swims and begins to fade, Junhui thinks he can hear Minghao’s voice, clearer than it has ever been, begging him to _please look at me, don’t fall asleep, Junhui, Junnie, Jun_.

 

\---

 

His lids have never been so heavy. Junhui surfaces into consciousness to the sound of birds chirping outside, air cool and light on his face and neck, and exerts a positive effort to bring them open, is greeted with an unfamiliar ceiling when he does so.

“You’re awake.” Minghao’s familiar drawl is pitched higher than usual, but by the time Junhui moves his eyes over to him his face is mostly impassive as he stands right by the edge of the bed, clearly having darted over from wherever he was before.

He blinks, slowly. The mud in his brain drains the tiniest bit, and is replaced by a cacophony of pain, centred in his chest and echoing in his skull. He opens his mouth, and can only let out a pathetic cough. Minghao’s lips draw into a tight line as he hurriedly grabs a cup on the bedside stand, bends to help him sit up just enough to drink.

“The blade was poisoned,” he says, somewhat inanely, when Junhui has drunk the whole cup and is leaning back against the headboard. “And I’m sure you can tell, but we’re in a safehouse on the outer bounds.”

Junhui does not mention the sudden change in conversation topic, bones too heavy for him to try to keep up. “Why?” he says, instead. The syllables come out garbled, and he is about to try again when Minghao is speaking, perhaps already knowing what he was going to say.

“We’re… in a delicate place,” he starts, tentative. “The officials are on high alert.”

The clouds in his head are dense, massive creatures, ambling along ponderously. Junhui struggles to remember why he’s here. “Why?” he asks again.

When Minghao looks at him, an expression of clear conflict is on his face. He opens his mouth, and nothing comes out for a moment. Then he says, carefully, “Botched assassination attempts are bound to send the corrupt into a state of worry. They know they could be next.”

“Oh.” He remembers now. How he’d miscalculated, failed to see the signs of a decoy, failed to notice another attacker, had only been saved by external intervention. Remembers thinking he’d heard Minghao’s voice, and then it clicks in his head, pieces slotting together neatly as plain as day.

“You saved me.” He wants to be grateful, but the words are leaden and sour in his mouth, and come out ugly, dissonant.

Minghao frowns and looks away. “I just - had your back,” he replies, mouth twisting into a knot. “Like I always do. I’m supposed to.”

They’re interrupted by the sound of footsteps. “You’re finally awake,” Yanan says, softly, coming through the doorway with bandages and a jar. “That’s a relief. I have to change your dressing, anyway.”

Minghao quietly steps away from beside him, leaning against an opposing wall instead as Yanan sets about undoing his bandages, cleaning the gash on his chest. He wills himself to ignore the pain, to not look at the gape he knows must be in his right shoulder. Tries not to think about how bad it might be, focusing instead on watching long lashes, the gentle solid line of a familiar brow.

A heavy silence blankets them as Yanan works. It feels almost as if he is avoiding eye contact, but Junhui pushes the thought away as soon as it comes. He knows he’s tired, keeping a bubbling anxiety and disappointment at bay through sheer preoccupation with the present. This is where it crashes down, the high he’s constructed for himself, and it is not so clear what lies at the bottom.

When Yanan is done, he pats Junhui’s chest lightly, then stands up, tossing him and then Minghao a perfunctory half-smile as he does. Junhui watches as he immediately proceeds to gather his supplies into his bag, and then picks it up, not looking at him the whole time.

“You’re not staying?” Surprisingly, it’s Minghao who speaks, even though the words are Junhui’s. When he glances at him he is met with a knowing stare.

Yanan falters, turns to look at him. “I have to go back to the city circle so they don’t trace me to you. You know this.”

“Oh, right,” Minghao says, voice strange at the edges like it always is when he’s lying. Junhui has never felt so conflicted about his transparency. “Yeah, of course, I forgot.”

“Getting old, huh,” Yanan teases halfheartedly, already walking out of the room. “I’ll be back within the next three days or so. You’ll be fine ‘til then, right?”

Somehow, Minghao is back by his side, arms crossed in a way that feels strangely protective. “We will,” he replies, and stays silent as they both watch Yanan go.

 

\---

 

“Was I wrong?”

It is two days since Junhui had woken. He sits up in bed, watching Minghao restlessly sweep a floor he has been cleaning the entire afternoon. On the low table beside him lies a wooden puzzle, solved one-handed countless times over. He blinks owlishly at the way his voice has come out, scratchy and hoarse, then clears his throat feebly. “‘Hao.”

Minghao doesn’t pause in his redundant sweeping, and manages to sound suitably distracted when he replies. “About what?”

Junhui unconsciously curls a hand in the sheet covering him for want of something to hold on to, fidgets. “For doing it without you.” His voice is small.

His partner looks up, then, and sets the broom aside, carefully folding his arms together. “Of course not,” he says, an unusual softness in his steady gaze. “Orders are orders. It was my fault for getting injured first.”

“But it wasn’t,” Junhui protests. “Even that - from the start - it was because I messed up, I shook the branches - that’s why they noticed we were there. And then you got hurt. Because of me.” He pauses, mouth curving unhappily, forcefully uncurling his fingers from the sheet as he continues. “You never do anything wrong.”

When he looks up he instantly feels _bad_ , again - worse than he had before, because Minghao’s expression is almost comical, caught as it is between an attempt at looking sympathetic and discomfort, clear as day.

“I’m sorry - I know you don’t like talking about things like this - It’s just, all I’ve been able to do these days is think.” And Minghao is there, patient, quiet, unjudgemental. Allconsuming, as far as thoughts go. He is overcome by guilt. “Ah - Forget it.”

“You weren’t,” comes the reply, anyway. Minghao has crossed most of the room to come over, maintaining a few meters between them. “You were just following orders. You couldn’t have known.”

“But I _could_ ,” Junhui cries. “The signs were all there, it was too easy, he wasn’t even a build match, I was just -” He cuts off abruptly. Distracted, is what he was going to say, by something he would rather not reveal. “Nevermind. And about that. I didn’t actually have to do it immediately.”

That startles Minghao into raising an eyebrow - the closest he might get to an admission of surprise. “You didn’t?”

“Wonwoo passed me the message, when I was in the marketplace. He -” Junhui chews on his lower lip. “He gave me options,” he says eventually, leaving out the rest.

He’s watching Minghao as he says this, and so has a front seat to the way an initial indignance - frustration? - makes its way onto his face, how his mouth falls open to chastise - and then falls closed, his longtime partner’s gaze turning considering. “Even so,” Minghao says, instead, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Junnie.”

Junhui recognises the rare nickname for what it is, hears the forgiveness in how Minghao is not questioning the decisions that he himself would never have made, the gaps in his motivations. Feels a rush of appreciation like a wave, threaded through with something that tastes a lot like longing.

Perhaps it is.

“Hao,” he starts, feeling courage well up like rainwater on a leaf, and seizes it before it tips over with the weight, slipping to the ground. “You’re always there for me.”

The other man does not say anything, only inclining his head a fraction as a sign he’s heard.

“And you know me,” he continues, reaching out with his good hand to tug Minghao gently closer, and leaves his hand around that fine-boned wrist as he does.

Minghao’s hand twitches, like he’s fighting against the urge to tug it out of Junhui’s grip. “What are you talking about?” he asks, wary. His eyes are tense, wildly reminiscent of a caged tiger.

Junhui wonders if it’s still called regret if it happens just before the fall. “I just wanted you to know,” he says anyway. “That I’m thankful you’re always here. And that...you’re important to me.” He pauses, considering, and says, almost dreamily, “Maybe - maybe the same way Yanan is.”

Minghao goes completely tense, and does snatch his wrist back now, nearly buzzing with tension. “What are you saying,” he bites out, “Is this some kind of - confession?”

“Minghao, I -”

“Is this out of some misplaced sense of gratitude?” Minghao wonders aloud, and under the anger there is an upset that Junhui cannot place his finger on. “You can’t just. Do these things, you know. You - you’re.” Alarmingly, the edge in his voice wavers, begins to tip over into a sob. “Do you even _think_ before you do things?”

Junhui recoils, but tries to hold his ground. “No - it - why can’t I -”

“You _don’t._ If you’re bent on finding out what’s wrong with you, maybe you should consider that it’s that simple of a problem.” A beat, and then. “I’m _leaving_ ,” Minghao hisses, spinning on his heel, and does.

 

“Yanan. What were your parents like?”

The other man halts in his brushwork at the only table in the room, carefully setting the brush down as he turns around. “You know,” he starts delicately, “that there are things I’d rather not talk about -”

“You’re pretty educated. Are they officials?”

Yanan makes a noise of frustration. “Why are you asking so suddenly?”

Junhui gestures vaguely at him to come over, sitting as he is up in the bed where he has been forced to remain. “No reason,” he hums, when Yanan is in front of him in the stool they’d left there. “I just feel like. I don’t know. I don’t know you enough.”

His excuses have always been flimsy. Yanan purses his soft, full lips thoughtfully and his brow furrows. Just looks, for a moment that stretches out into three. Then he asks, carefully, “Does this have to do with why Minghao didn’t want to come?”

Junhui very deliberately looks away, ends up staring at a bedpost because there is nothing else. “No,” he says.

Yanan sighs, a tremendous rush of air escaping in a noisy huff. “It does, doesn’t it,” he says. “You know - I can’t just be here all the time. People will notice.”

Junhui makes a noise that means completely nothing, and then abruptly decides to change the subject. Leaning back, he huffs, purposefully petulant, and looks up at the ceiling. Outside the spring is quiet, a few birds chirping in the breeze. “Okay.”

Thinking he’s dropped the matter, Yanan spares him a perfunctory smile before returning to his desk and resuming his task, jotting down notes on paper.

But the thin peace doesn’t last long. “I can tell you why Minghao’s mad,” Junhui says, apropos of nothing.

He can hear the wariness in the answering query. “Why?”

“Because he figured it out,” Junhui carries on, suddenly careless, suddenly tired. “And he hates me for it.”

“What?”

“You will too, I think,” he says.

Yanan sounds properly irritated now, for once, but he tries to keep his tone even when he asks, “What are you talking about?”

Junhui glances up at him, eyes wide and large and vulnerable. He wants to tell Yanan - hates keeping secrets - but he’s afraid, now, knowing there is so much at stake. “Can you promise me to listen? You can say whatever - whatever you want after, but. Tell me you’ll listen first.”

Yanan bites back whatever it is he’s about to say, meets Junhui’s hesitant gaze, then relaxes. He nods, once, setting his work aside, folding his arms over his chest as he waits.

Watching him carefully, Junhui lets out a tentative smile that barely makes it beyond a start, nodding once, twice, then several times more, almost compulsively, and it is apparent that he is doing so more for himself than as an external display of agreement. He takes a deep breath. “I think,” he says, “that I am. I have - have, uh, feelings, for Minghao.”

The world slows to a still. Stunned, Yanan opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, voice rendered immobile by the creeping dread and confusion climbing up his throat, seizing in his gut. “Ah,” he says very quietly, and thinks he knows how this is going to go, wonders how it had taken this long, in hindsight. The world narrows to a point. He struggles to stay on it.

“But I - the thing is,” Junhui continues, licking his lips repeatedly, like he always does when he’s nervous, “They don’t - they don’t come in the way of our. I mean our - you -” He gestures between the two of them helplessly, frustrated, then says, “It doesn’t change anything between the two of us.”

He looks up, and Yanan is just staring, now, mouth drawn like there is something he very badly wants to say. Finally he says, “Jun, you can’t just tell me something like this and expect me to know what it is you want.” He sounds oddly far away, like he’s looking in at Junhui from somewhere else.

“I want,” Junhui says, “I want to have you both.” Yanan’s face draws further closed, lines tightening, and he hastens to add, almost pleading, “I know it might be selfish, but I - but if these are just my emotions, then - then why do I have to choose?”

Yanan is silent for a very long time, and Junhui wonders if he should be afraid. He plays with his right sleeve with his left hand as he waits, absently pulling at the cloth, weakly flexing the fingers on his right hand and feeling the jab of pain in his shoulder. There is something comforting about the reminder that he has to bear the consequences of his actions.

Eventually he does speak. He says, “Do you want me to talk to him?”

Junhui whips his head around to look at his physician, lover, something-more, eyes agog with wonder, afraid to hope. “W,” he starts, “Would you?”

Yanan makes no move to close the distance between them, but does smile, a weary stretch of his lips. “If you’re absolutely sure, then, for you - yes. But only if you’re sure.” Then he stands up, and does step closer now, bending to brush the briefest of pecks to the crown of Junhui’s head. “I have to go,” he mumbles, and leaves Junhui alone with his thoughts.

 

\---

 

So Minghao does return, looking unwilling but determined. If Junhui knows him, he has something to say, and - and Junhui does. Know him, that is, so in turn he steels himself, ready for whatever it is he might say. He waves him over to the battered chess board he’s been mulling over, and Minghao joins him, starting the game in tense silence.

“Yanan told me you wanted to talk,” Minghao finally says, a few moves in, “and I’m mostly here because I owe this much to him. If he didn’t have to stay in the city centre -” He trails off, looking a bit distracted. “But we _are_ partners. So I owe you this much, too. You wanted to talk? Talk, then.”

Even knowing Minghao as well as he does, the unapologetic straightforwardness throws Junhui off, makes his lower lip curl in some discomfort. He fiddles with a piece in his hands. “I mean,” he says, “You know what I wanted to say.”

Minghao’s sharp gaze doesn’t waver when he says, “Maybe I didn’t understand you right. Try me again.”

Junhui wonders how much of that is true, but lowers his gaze anyway, pushing a soldier hesitantly across the river on the board in front of him. He _has_ given it thought. And he is sure. “I - I think that I. Think. Of you - something like I think of Yanan,” he starts, tone wavering, watching as Minghao shifts a soldier to block one of Junhui’s horses.

“And I - I don’t know. Why do I have to just stick to one person, if I can have feelings for more than one? Right?” He shifts the soldier that had crossed the river sideways, absently thinking to bait one of his opponent’s cannons.

“Sometimes you can be so selfish,” Minghao says, matter-of-fact, taking the bait despite how blatant it is, setting the claimed piece down with a loud _clack_. It’s uncharacteristic, but Junhui thinks maybe he’s distracted by the conversation.  “And this is so - Junhui, we’re partners. Being there is what I’m supposed to do.”

Junhui looks down, picks a horse, and pushes it in an L shape, without really paying attention to the board. “That isn’t it,” he says quietly, somehow willing Minghao to understand. “It might have been a - a realisation, but I think even before then…” He stops, then glances up bravely. “I mean - Just say you don’t want this, and I’ll stop.”

He catches it when the statement takes his partner by surprise, Minghao’s brows rising and then instantly falling furrowed. “You’re being selfish,” he repeats instead, rushed so the words cut off as he stands, eats one of Junhui’s soldiers with another of his own. “You can’t just - you can’t just act as if things can be laid out so simply, Junhui. It doesn’t work like that.”

Minghao stands up then, weary. “Let’s just -” his hands wave about, vaguely - “Just not talk about this anymore, okay? And by the way,” he adds, gesturing to the board, where there is a clear line between their two generals, left when Junhui had haphazardly shifted his soldier out of the way a few moves prior. “I would’ve won three turns ago.”

But he hadn’t chosen to. Junhui tries not to think too hard about that fact.

 

\---

 

They’re nose to nose, now, Minghao’s face mere breaths from Yanan’s, and he’s staring straight into his eyes with a sort of fiery determination, nose scrunched up almost comically at the proximity. Yanan’s eyes cross, just the tiniest bit, and Minghao pulls away with a huff of displeasure, mouth puckering into a moue of dissatisfaction.

“What was that?” Yanan asks, carefully, at a complete loss as to the nature of this interaction. “Also, um, hello. Normally people use the front door.”

Minghao gracefully steps back, ignoring the gentle jibe at his window-based entry. He skips to the first question, and replies “I don’t know,” brow furrowed in apparent thought.

“Isn’t this what he wants?”

The pieces slot together with a _click_. “Ah,” Yanan says, a tiny breathy exhale, “Junhui. Well - no, I don’t think so. Um. Do you even like me?”

Minghao looks up at him like he is some sort of new bird that has descended in his backyard. “Junhui does,” he says.

The reply is so matter of fact and so completely _not_ the point that Yanan can’t help but laugh, despite the confused way Minghao tilts his head in query. “I would hope he does, yes,” he manages, “But that wasn’t my question.”

Minghao looks away, to the side, and picks up a clean brush, playing with its tip by separating its hairs and watching idly as they fan out. Replies, “I’ve known you for forever, haven’t I?”

Yanan quiets from laughing and looks at him strangely, head cocked far left. Then he says, slowly, “For somebody who resents Junhui his stubbornness, you embody much of the same trait.”

“That isn’t _true_ ,” Minghao starts, indignant, then seems to hear himself. “What I meant was - You know I don’t - well - ugh.” He chews on the silence for a bit, then says, eventually, “I would consider us friends.”

Something shifts in the other man’s expression at this, the beginning of a smile creasing the corners of his mouth. “Yeah? I’m glad.”

“But,” Minghao carries on slowly, “I’m not sure we’ve ever had a real conversation without Junhui here.”

“You care a lot about him,” Yanan observes lightly. “We can start, if you’d like.”

Minghao flushes hotly. “I do not,” he protests. “But I would - I would like.”

Yanan turns abruptly away, and Minghao fights the instinctive rising panic in his chest until he realises that he’s only looking out of the window he had used as a door.

“The sky is beautiful today,” he hums, and it is, broad and blue with plump snowy clouds drifting indolently by. “Would you care to walk with me?”

Minghao follows his gaze, and sees a choice. “Yes,” he says, and takes it.

 

\---

 

Yanan doesn’t speak the most - Minghao has always known this. Their occasional excursions are uneventful, spent drenched in sunlight and thought, often accompanied by the thrum of the marketplace. Usually Minghao watches, asking the occasional question, as Yanan purchases supplies for his practice, accompanying him until he has to go back to watch over Junhui, with whom things are still terse, if civil.

But a lot of what he does say occurs in the quiet moments, when he’s pressing a child’s torn knee carefully shut, when he accepts payment in food he has too much of, when he is silent, poring over books by gaslight. Minghao considers this last one now, curled up on a stool at the corner of the room. He merely watches, seeing not much more than a form in the dim yellow light, catching glimpses of a brow furrowed in concentration. Thinks of how Junhui might see him, and tries his best to see it, feel it too.

If Yanan feels the gaze, he doesn’t say anything, committed as he is to his work. There is a comfort to this silence - Minghao has only just allowed himself to sink into his thoughts when there is a knock at Yanan’s door.

“I’ll get it,” Minghao says, going out into the hallway. When he opens it he finds Wonwoo there, looking vaguely disapproving but otherwise as he always does. “Wonwoo.”

“I hate to be the bringer of bad news,” the messenger starts, “But Junhui’s being kicked out.”

Minghao feels his mouth go dry. “Why are you telling me this? Or - were you looking for Yanan?”

Wonwoo shrugs halfheartedly. “Doesn’t matter. It got out that the injury was worse than you reported, and now they’re saying that you should come back, basically. Alone, or - you know.”

“That - that isn’t an option for me,” Minghao says. “You know that, Wonwoo.” Even as they currently are, whether or not he agrees to Junhui’s ridiculous demands - if the choice is to stay alone, or to go with Junhui, he would choose Junhui.

It’s always Junhui.

“I don’t see why,” Minghao objects stubbornly, trying to argue his way out. “He’s injured, not dead. He could make a full recovery. It’s only been a - a couple of weeks.” The last part is a bit of a lie. He hopes Wonwoo doesn’t notice.

“He took a knife to the shoulder. There’s no chance he’ll recover full mobility, which makes him a liability now. A seen mercenary who can no longer kill is basically a sitting duck, Minghao. You know this as well as I do.”

“Don’t call Junhui a liability -”

“Both of you make my job _so_ difficult,” Wonwoo grumbles loudly over him, effectively cutting off his protest. It is comforting to banter, to forget that their lives hang in the balance now. “But I feel partially responsible.”

“For what?” Minghao questions, frowning.

Wonwoo waves him off, unwilling to reply. Instead he continues as if he had never been interrupted. “Which is why I’m going to tell you this now -” He sighs noisily, massaging his defined nose bridge with no small amount of consternation. “Knock me out.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’ll tell them you put up a fight and knocked me out. The rest is up to you.”

Minghao blinks, halfheartedly raising a hand in preparation. “Are you sure? If they find you out...”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes, a rare display of amusement. “I haven’t got all day, Minghao.” He pauses, then says, now sombre: “Neither do the three of you.”

Minghao does not fail to notice the number, and wonders how much it is their friend knows. “Thanks,” he says, “I - We owe you, if we ever meet again.”

Wonwoo laughs, genuine for once, a humour that lights up his face. “Sure,” he says, “If we ever do.”

 

\---

 

So here they are - miles away from a life previously known. Minghao is still awake by nothing but the grace of adrenaline, hot in his veins from their hurried escape, knowing Wonwoo’s ruse would only buy them so much time. Yanan is asleep, having completely exhausted himself from the journey, but neither Junhui nor Minghao seem to be able to rest, lying on their respective beds in total silence in the safehouse they had finally reached.

“You chose to come with me,” Junhui mumbles, suddenly, voice a strange shape - like he can’t decide whether he’s speaking to himself or aloud. “You’ll be on the blacklist, now. You can never go back.”

Even though he looks away, the weight of Junhui’s regard is heavy, amplified by the uncharacteristic silence. Minghao resists it for a few beats before he gives in. “It isn't that simple to leave you behind, you know.”

Junhui can hardly dare to hope, raising his head just above his pillow. “Are we having this conversation now?”

Minghao grimaces as he sits up, that characteristically straightforward expression of his, and the glimpse of levity is a knife of longing between Junhui's ribs. “You would never have abandoned me,” he says instead, slender arms twisting to fold into each other across his chest.

As quickly as it had come the hope leaves Junhui's chest in an exhale. “’Hao,” he says, and the name falls leaden off his tongue as he speaks to the ceiling. “You know this isn't just a matter of partnership to me – I know what you said and I know you're right and I've been thinking about it, I have, but before anything I want you to at least know that when I said that I really -"

“For _once_ could you shut up,” Minghao snipes, then his mouth hangs open for a moment, and he unconsciously licks his lips in a nervous tell when he finally continues. “Okay,” he says, abruptly.

“What?” Junhui asks, scrambling into a seated position. “I’m sorry, did you say -”

“That’s my answer,” Minghao snaps, more tensely than he feels. He modulates it with a softer tone as he repeats himself, watching the tender, budding joy light upon Junhui’s face. “Okay.”

 

\---

 

Minghao is sitting on the stone wall lining their small backyard when Yanan slips out the back door, smiling crookedly in greeting when he sees him. “Good morning,” he says, making his way over. “Have you been up long?”

He raises an eyebrow in reply, slipping off his perch. “It was my turn to make breakfast. You know how Junhui gets when he’s hungry.”

Yanan laughs, because he does. “Anything for Junhui, right?” he quips, lightly.

Minghao blinks slowly, half-smiles. “Anything for Junhui,” he repeats. Yanan notices the new weight attached to the words, and cocks his head expectantly, querying.

“It’s not important,” Minghao starts to say, already regretting the slip in his expression, but he receives a _tsk_ that means _remember when we said no more secrets?_ \- because they had, and he’d agreed to it, because - because _Anything for Junhui_ rings truer than he’d like.

“You won’t like it,” he tries, instead.

Yanan shrugs. “Try me,” he says, and Minghao is struck by a memory of the last time he’d said the same.

“Okay,” he says anyway. “I don’t normally talk about murder before breakfast, but since you insist, well.” Yanan’s expression doesn’t change, waiting for him to speak.

“I took care of Jun’s original target. Just because - you know.” He pauses. “But he doesn’t know - I’ll tell him if he asks, but he hasn’t, so.”

Then there _is_ something that shifts in Yanan’s gaze, even as his lips purse in that same disapproving way that has come to be so familiar. But he drops it as quickly as it had come, glancing in the direction of where Junhui is asleep in his room.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, stepping closer.

“You would’ve done the same if you knew how,” Minghao demurs, gaze flicking downwards to focus on the small distance between their feet. “I knew how, so I did.”

There is a noncommittal hum in response. “Maybe so.” And then a hand takes his, squeezes quickly for the briefest moment before letting go. “But I’m grateful anyway.”

A warmth is nestling in his chest. Minghao breathes in, breathes back out, and is opening his mouth to speak when there come the distinct sounds of shuffling. When they both turn their heads it is to find Junhui leaning against the doorway, watching them speak, a small smile on his face. Instinctively, Minghao tenses up, wondering how much he’d heard.

“Hey.” Somehow, Junhui manages to suffuse the single syllable with an unbearable amount of affection.

Minghao forcibly relaxes, and lets a smile reveal itself as Yanan replies. Breathes, “Hey,” as well. He watches as Junhui begins to walk over to them, sleepily rubbing at his eyes, keeps going until one outstretched arm is twisted around Minghao, the other wrapping around Yanan so he’s entangled in them both.

Involuntarily, Minghao is pulled sideways into Yanan. He lets his right arm drape over Junhui’s waist, left around Junhui’s, and listens to his small, quiet breaths.

“Thank you both for being here for me - with me,” Junhui says, softly. “It means a lot. Everything.”

Yanan presses a kiss to the crown of his head; Minghao satisfies himself with running a soothing hand through his hair. “You’re welcome.” One of them says it - it doesn’t matter who it is, because he’s speaking for them both.

Around them, dawn is slowly awakening into day, the sun climbing over the nearby town as Minghao gently ushers the other two of them in for food. Later, he will go down to apprentice at a merchant’s, and Yanan, assisted by Junhui, will take patients at their house. And the world will move, careless of the one they left behind.

By the window, a sparrow sings.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you decide u still like me after that I am always available [here](http://twitter.com/frogbabey)! Thank you for your time!


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